


The Last Two in a Long, Long Line

by visiblemarket



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Arguments, First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, M/M, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I thought we'd be done with all this." </i>
</p>
<p> <i>Clint can practically hear the way his eyes are crinkling, that slight, sweet smirk of his. It's distracting even when Clint can't see it. "Huh?" </i></p>
<p> <i>"Patching you up in the middle of the night. Now that I'm not your handler anymore."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Phil's hands are gentle, not unwelcome, but he shoves them away on instinct anyway, maybe because they're just on his face when he wants them everywhere that hurts and some places that don't.

"Stop being difficult, Barton," Phil says, obviously exasperated, and Clint can't blame him; it's late, too late, he shouldn't have come, definitely shoudn't've still covered in blood and dirt and dripping both onto Phil's carpet and now his bathtub, but...but Phil's fingers are still tender as they trace along his cheekbones, manipulate his head till he can look Clint in the eye. "I don't think you're concussed," he says, and Clint doesn't say anything, because he's good with whatever Phil says. "But I'm not exactly a doctor..." he's about to suggest a real one, about to say he'll drive Clint, but no, _no_ , if it were serious he would, but he can't, he can't stand to be anywhere else right now. Phil must be able to read that on him, and his lips press tight for a moment before he shakes his head. "Okay," he says. "Okay. I'm going to need to see your arm, though."

Clint jerks back. Phil sighs, reaches out, his fingers running up Clint's forearm carefully, as if acclimating him to it. Clint lets him, until he gets to the crook of his elbow, and then tries to pull further away again. _It's fine_ , he can't bring himself to say as Phil gives him a steady look. Clint sighs. It's not—he's not squeamish, can't afford to be. Can stand seeing his skin sliced and torn apart and stitched back together, _has_ seen that, but right now, he can't stand to have Phil looking at him, not like that.

He shuts his eyes. Feels Phil push up the sleeve of his shirt. Hears Phil hum in sympathy, and wants nothing more than to reach out for him, pull him close, feel him breathe. "That's going to need stitches," he says, and Clint nods, because obviously. Phil rolls up his sleeve. Clint feels the wet sting of peroxide.

"I thought we'd be done with all this." 

Clint can practically hear the way his eyes are crinkling, that slight, sweet smirk of his. It's distracting even when Clint can't see it. "Huh?" 

"Patching you up in the middle of the night. Now that I'm not your handler anymore."

He takes a breath as the pinch, then numbness, of anesthetic spreads across his arm. It's something he doesn't need, rarely bothers with, but Phil always has been kinder to him than he deserves. "You'll always be my—" his what? That's not—he shouldn't. He should shut up. He can't—he can't think, through the exhaustion, through the first tug of a surgical thread through his skin. "My handler."

"God help me." Phil says. His tone is warm, and so is his smile when Clint opens his eyes. Phil's attention isn't on him, or well it is, on his arm, which means Clint can look at him like he wants to, can take in the sleep-mused hair and the stubble on his cheeks, the soft-looking shirt he's wearing. His eyes are sharp as ever, though, and that's why Clint's here. 

"I'm sorry," he says, and Phil frowns slightly.

"For what?"

"Waking you up? Bleeding all over your carpet?"

"No, you're not," Phil says, dry but fond, and Clint chokes out a laugh. Phil glances up at him, and his eyes are fucking gorgeous. Blue, not like any ocean Clint's seen, not like any sky. Just blue enough to become his reference point. Phil's lips quirk into a very efficient smile, because what else, and he ducks his head again to concentrate on Clint's arm. When he's done, he half-turns, reaching for the first aid kit that's perched on the sink behind him. In the process, he gives Clint a better than usual look at his back, the broadness of his shoulders a lot more obvious in his white t-shirt than in any of the suits he usually wears. 

But then again, Clint's seen him naked. His body isn't exactly a state secret. 

"Coulson," he says, and Phil glances at him for a second before pressing a bandage to his arm. 

"Yes?" His fingers smooth down the adhesive strips of the bandage, and linger there for maybe a second longer than they need to. Clint stays very quiet at first, until Phil's hand drops and he starts to pull away. Clint reaches out automatically, grabs his wrist, and Phil stills.

"I don't—" he takes a breath. He feels sort of like he's drowning and he has to force himself to look at him. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything." Phil's tone is exactly as mild as ever, his eyes just as kind. His pulse is steady under Clint's thumb. Clint wishes he could stroke at the soft skin there, wants to hold on hard enough to bruise. He lets go.

"I miss you." 

Phil smiles, maybe a little fonder than usual, or maybe Clint's imagining things. It wouldn't be the first time. "That's always nice to hear," he says, standing up, and Clint regrets not stopping him again.

"It's true."

Phil's back is to him as he puts the first aid kit in the medicine cabinet again. "I'll be back before you know it," he says, and Clint can't see his face, only the way his shoulders drop as he lets out a breath. 

"But it'll…" Clint shuts his eyes, leans back against the tiled wall. It's cold against his skin, through his shirt. He can hear Phil washing his hands. "It'll be different."

The faucet turns off. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Fuck, I don't know." Phil's walking back to him and he still isn't sure. "Maybe. Maybe not. But probably."

Phil ruffles his hair. 

Clint opens his eyes just to roll them, but doesn't move away from Phil's hand. Phil laughs, smoothes down his hair. At one point, the settling becomes stroking and Clint struggles not to lean into it, to not be disappointed when he stops.

"I remember," Phil says, as he sits down on the edge of the tub again, thigh bumping against Clint's knees. "When I first met you."

Clint groans. "I was such a punk kid back then."

"Yeah," Phil says, with a smirk, the _was_? so strongly implied that he might as well have said it, but Clint feels the laugh bubbling in his chest and lets it out. Phil grins, and squeezes his knee. "And now look at you."

Now look at him. Emotionally constipated fuck up. Over thirty years old but still just a punk kid to the man—to Phil. Avenger, but Phil puts a lot more store in that than Clint does. He wasn't there when it happened, is why. He doesn't know what a clusterfuck it was, what a mess Clint was after, and that's Clint's fault too. All he's heard about is the heroism, the efficiency, the teamwork, whatever bullshit Fury and Captain Rogers have been feeding him.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and the little wrinkle between Phil's eyebrows furrows. "For not going to see you."

Phil hesitates, as if he's not sure why he's bringing it up, like he doesn't want it brought up. "It's fine," he says, careful. "You don't like medical."

"But I—" he swallows. "I like you." 

Phil looks at him with soft eyes, then he ducks his head. "You should get some sleep."

"Phil—"

Phil stands up. "I should get some sleep, too."

"Okay." 

"The couch is made up, if you want to—"

"I do." Or at least, he doesn't want to say no to him. Nothing'll stop him for maybe making a break for it once Phil goes to sleep. 

"Okay," Phil says, and Clint thinks that might be that, except Phil walks back over to him, leans over, and presses a quick kiss to the top of his head. "We'll talk in the morning."

Clint can't actually tell whether that’s a threat or a promise, but he knows he's stuck either way.


	2. Chapter 2

It's not the first time he's woken up on Phil's couch, but it's the first time it's happened without the smell of toast and coffee coming from Phil's kitchen, without the comforting sound of Phil pacing the worn linoleum. 

The room feels dead without it. 

Clint gets up. Getting the coffee started isn't hard, but Phil's out of bread, or maybe he's keeping it somewhere different now. But the whole fridge is just as empty, no old take out boxes or the small milk jugs, the only kind Phil will buy, because anything else ends up spoiled. 

"You're wasting electricity."

Clint shuts the door pointedly. Turns around. Phil's behind him, coffee cup already in hand, cradling it like it contains the elixir of life. For Phil, it probably does.

"You're out of bread."

"I'm out of everything," Phil says, unconcerned. "How's your arm?"

"Fine." Clint leans back against the refrigerator. "How'd you sleep?" Phil shrugs, a heavily abridged version of his could-be-worse, could-be-better shrug, and takes a large gulp of coffee. Clint can see the dark circles under his eyes a lot better in this light. "How bad?"

Phil takes a precise sip of coffee. "Bosnia," he says, almost as an afterthought.

That's before Clint's time, but he knows enough. 

He reaches out. It's a very small kitchen, there isn't far to go. Phil's chest is warm under his fingertips, even through his shirt. He tries to keep the pressure light, and Phil bears it silently, but there's a slight twitch to the corner of his left eye. Clint pulls his hand back.

 _How bad_? he wants to ask again. Like he doesn't know. Like he's capable of understanding. Like he's capable of doing anything other than staring at Phil right now.

"The doctors are optimistic," Phil says.

"What?"

"About my…" he waves vaguely at his chest, and his eyes flicker to the floor for a second, then back up. "Full recovery." He adds that wry Super Agent Coulson not-smile at the end, and Clint's stomach swoops violently.

" _Good_." Clint says, with more force than strictly necessary, and Phil's smile softens.

"Because you miss me?"

Clint laughs. Chokes. "Yeah," he says. "Because I really fucking—" and true to form, he moves without letting himself think about it. Phil's face fits perfectly between his hands and his mouth smells of coffee and toothpaste. 

Clint kisses him, and Phil bears this silently, too. Doesn't even move.

"Well," he says, when Clint pulls back. "This is new."

Clint stares at him; he's fucking _unreadable_ right now, not even a hint of a smile, not so much as a frown. He's intentionally shut himself down. It may be the biggest dick move he's ever seen Coulson pull, and he has seen Phil do some shit.

"Is that…" Clint swallows the lump forming in his throat. Clenches his hands into fists, then unclenches them and shoves them in his pockets. "Is that a bad thing?"

Phil looks down at his coffee cup, traces his thumb along the rim. "Maybe not."

"But probably?" He forces a laugh, and Phil glances up at him. 

"That's not what I—" Phil sighs. He half turns, puts the coffee mug down behind him. "I'm just...confused," he says, in the tone Clint knows really means disappointed and a little insulted that Clint has chosen this particular method of acting up. 

It's a tone he hasn't heard in a while. 

It kind of pisses him off, actually. They've been dancing around this thing for at least five years. When Phil isn't treating him like a half-starved circus kid he'd picked off the streets, he's done his share of staring, of being a little too quick to touch, a little too at ease with having Clint in his space. And now Clint's finally gotten up the courage to make a move and Phil's fucking _confused_?

His expression must change, because Phil frowns, and the wrinkle between his eyes returns. "I _am_ confused. It's just…" Phil leans back against the counter. "Why now?"

"Because—"

"Because I died." Phil says, almost smug, and starts to cross his arms before he seems to think better of it. Clint's so startled it takes him a moment to regroup.

"That's not—"

"Because you've been through…you're used to me. You come here, I patch you up, I—" Phil pushes off the counter, and for a second Clint thinks he's going to come closer, but he doesn't. "I have feelings for you. You have to know that."

"I do." He says it quiet, soft. Phil doesn't seem happy about it and he doesn't want to embarrass him more. Phil sighs again.

"I've had feelings for you for years. You never—I just don't know what you want from me, _now_. When you should—you shouldn't trust me, you shouldn't—"

"Just because Fury—"

"No. It was _my_ decision. You have every right to be angry at _me_."

"I _am_ angry at you." 

This seems to surprise Phil; hell, it surprises Clint, but it's true, and he feels the prickle at the nape of his neck that signals the onset of his fight-or-flight reflex. He brings his hand back to try and rub it away. 

"Okay," Phil says, warily, and waits. Clint's not sure for what, but he struggles to keep from doing something dumb like leaving or trying to kiss him again in the meantime. Phil eventually just shakes his head and continues, not quite meeting Clint's eyes. "I just don't know what you want from me."

Which is a hell of a thing to say to him, mostly because Clint has no idea himself. 

_I just want you_ , is the first thing that comes to mind. "I almost died yesterday," is what comes out. Phil's eyes soften immediately, and Clint kind of feels like shit. This isn't how he wanted to do this. "I—fuck it, I almost die every day. But I almost died yesterday, and all I could think about was _you_."

"Clint—"

"And not even…not even good stuff, like how you're such a fucking badass, how fucking _brave_ you are, or the bad stuff, like how pissed I am—"

" _Clint_."

"I just wanted to see you."

"You see me all the time."

"I want to see more of you." Phil's smile is small, but it's there, and Clint blushes. "No, not—I mean _yeah_ , that, but mostly—" he shakes his head. He's getting seriously off track, this isn't going to work. "Phil. Listen. Why _now_? Because why the hell _not_ , now?"

"I don't know," Phil says, quietly.

"Look, I—" Clint takes a breath. "I don't want to have to talk you into this."

"You're not." 

It's too quick to be anything but honest, and Clint blinks. "Oh."

"No, I mean—" it's Phil's turn to blush. "I mean you don't have to."

It takes him a moment, and then it dawns on him. " _Oh_ ," he says again, and it's half-caught in a laugh. "Yeah?"

Phil smiles, a real, fond smile. "Yeah."

Clint tries to keep himself from whooping in triumph. It's surprisingly easy once he decides to walk over to Phil, grab the front of his shirt, and pull him into a kiss. 

Phil kisses him back.

Phil _kisses him back_ , and Clint closes his eyes. Feels Phil's hands slide up his arms, careful of his new stitches, feels his fingers traces across Clint's jaw, his cheekbones, then curl over Clint's ears and stroke through his hair. Clint leans into each touch, and Phil presses closer each time. 

Eventually, they break apart. Phil's eyes are still shut and Clint wants to kiss him again. He does, a quick peck that seems to surprise Phil. It makes him smile, at least, and he opens his eyes. One of his hands curls around the back of Clint's neck and gives him a squeeze.

"What now?" Phil says, barely above a whisper, and the very idea of Phil Coulson not knowing how to proceeded in any given situation should shock Clint, should give him pause. It does, a little, but it also makes him grin, makes him wrap an arm around Phil's waist and press his face against Phil's throat.

"I have no fucking clue," Clint mumbles, and Phil laughs, caresses the back of his neck. 

"I’m sure you'll figure something out." 

"I wouldn’t be.”

“Well,” he hears, before he feels Phil press a kiss to his temple. "At least I'm sure about you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [infiniteeight8](http://infiniteeight8.tumblr.com/) pointed out we could use more fluff on the tag and, well, I tried.


End file.
